Monday, 26 December 2011


DICK - Well Tom, did you get to see Santa this Christmas?

TOM - You know I didn’t.  You put sleepy drugs in my hot chocolate.

DICK - Yeah had to Tom, you remember last year don’t yer.  You wet the bed three times you were so excited, and I was wearing blotting paper jimjams.  I nearly drowned!

TOM - Yeah but you say that.  You also wet the bed that night.

DICK - My jimjams got so heavy with wee I couldn’t get out of bed to go to the bog.  And you tell me, whose fault was that eh, mister reject bladder?

TOM - The yellow fountain was good though weren’t it?

DICK - Yeah that was fun.  My yellow fountain was better than yours.

TOM - It went up higher but mine was more yellow.

DICK - Your wee fucking glows Tom.

TOM - Thank you Dick.

DICK - Nah Tom it’s not a compliment, your wee really glows like it’s radioactive or something.

TOM - Digital?

DICK - Lethal more like.  I wish Santa would bring us our own beds.

TOM - Tell me about it mister explosion bottom.

DICK - If my bottom songs annoy you why did you give me ground fart spice and a signed fart from Johnny Fartpants?

TOM - We ain’t ‘ad a fight yet this Christmas ‘ave we Dick?

DICK - Perhaps tomorrow eh Tom?

TOM - Fingers crossed.  Thanks for my socks Dick.

DICK - No worries Tom.

TOM - Thinking about last year, it were lucky I wet the bed so much though weren’t it, what with you trying to set fire to yer farts an all.  I think it saved the bed from burning.   Dick, do you think I should wet the bed now.  You know, just in case.

DICK - If you want.

Friday, 9 December 2011


A Writer Named Stew

There once was a writer named Stew
Who wrote prose as he sat in the loo.
When he ran out of ink
He raised such a stink
'Cause he had done nothing but poo.

Mr. Bob's Bio:
Potty-trained at an early age, Mr. Bob grew fascinated with bathroom humor. His very religious mother forced him to create euphemisms for bathroom activities and that led to composing limericks his mother (rest her soul) wouldn’t approve of.

Mr. Bob resides in Kansas City , Missouri , USA where he writes short stories and the occasional limerick for Dick and Tom.

Friday, 4 November 2011


Bill Puckett
A poem about a young man who could not easily
express his love for his family because his actions were most always unclear

Dane Zeller

There was a young man from Nantucket,
Whose toilet he could not flush it.
The content of the Kohler one-holer,
would always flow the bowl over.
So he gave it to his mother-in-law in Pawtucket.

Dane asked us if Hemingway started out this way.  Well, actually yes he did, but then it went downhill for him.  Perhaps there's a lesson to be learnt there.  Find out more about Dane:

Saturday, 1 October 2011

All Work And No Play from mondoaagogo

From the Luminaire Club (now defunked)
with very big thanks to mondoagogo 
and there's more where that came from @

Sunday, 21 August 2011


Contemplation – or...

Squeezing one out when pissed

In private moments,
when well fuelled with figs
and other such fibrous delicacies,
a trip to the bathroom can be a pleasure.

Indecorous though it may sound,
poetry is well suited to the smallest room.
There’s peace and quiet and usually a lock
to fend off unwanted interruptions.
I mean, who’d want cutting off mid push/verse?
Your average poem lasts about the right time
with a little left over for silent contemplation.
If it’s a stinker, spare paper can be useful.


There are moments,
when the call comes,
and taking all into consideration,
it’s not a welcome announcement.

Such as.

Following four days
of heavy drinking.
And you’re in the pub.
And to top it all,
There’s someone at the urinal.
I say listening,
More like noticing.
And your unintended partner in evacuation
provides some commentary.

It’s unlikely to provide for a happy conclusion
to your business.

What’s left in the breach
(so to speak)
can be taken home for poetic contemplation.

Phil usually writes prose, but when no-one is looking, he occasionally tries his hand at poetry. This site seemed like a great depository for this one.
He lives and works in Bolton and in his spare time, co-edits Prole, Poetry and Prose

Sunday, 31 July 2011


From the Luminaire Club (now defunked)
with very big thanks to mondoagogo 
and there's more where that came from @

Tuesday, 28 June 2011



It's nice to have
a morning shit
to sit
to sit
to sit
to shit

It's nice to have 
a morning sit
to shit
to shit
to shit
to sit

Eric G. Muller has written two novels, Rites of Rock (Adonis Press 2005) and Meet Me at the Met (Plain View Press, 2010), as well as a collection of poetry, Coffee on the Piano for You (Adonis Press, 2008).  Articles, short stories and poetry have appeared in various journals and magazines.

Tuesday, 14 June 2011


So it goes …  chocolategirl64 wants to know why she can’t be herself anymore plenty more good stuff@

Monday, 6 June 2011



Cues all off time,
Even dropped a line.
But I still got the part
With a loud nervous fart--

Aahhh, thespian art!

*          *          *

Ed Higgins says My poems & short fiction have been in a shitload of print & online zines, some in the UK (Twisted Tongue and Pen Pusher, for example). My  wife and I live on a small farm in Yamhill, Oregon, USA, with a  menagerie of animals including several goats, some Jersey steers, four  pigs, two geese, two alpacas, two manx barn cats, and a flock of araucana chickens. Don't know if cartoon superheroes are much into farming, but we deal with a lotta poo & wee.

Tuesday, 31 May 2011


From the Luminaire Club (now defunked)
with very big thanks to mondoagogo and there's more where that came from @

Thursday, 26 May 2011


Ben Nitt ponders fudge brownies or sponge fingers during an enforced visit to a public convenience.

An Almost Unfortunate Incident Of Overcooked Broccoli

Why I bothered to make the tiresome bus expedition to Batley market square instead of the much shorter, more pleasant journey to Marks and Spencer’s in Leeds, I’m not too sure.  Perhaps I felt, especially after the unfortunate incident in the lingerie department a few months ago, I couldn’t suffer the scornful glances of the shop assistants.  I was forced, yet again, to re-enact that same nightmare recently when purchasing a girdle for Mother; running a gauntlet of accusing eye movements to a chorus of ‘tuts’ from the young female shop assistants.  With that in mind Batley market seemed a much safer option for some new underpants.  I’ve found myself more and more drawn towards what is known as boxer shorts, which Mother refuses to wash for me maintaining that there’s nothing more wholesome in the world than the feel and smell of a nice pair of white cotton Y-fronts.  It, apparently, is exactly what Jesus would have worn.  What she fails to come to terms with is that in my years of greying pubic hair those still precious and tender, but sadly underused, parts of my body are sagging southwards towards Nottinghamshire, rendering those nice homely blessed white cotton Y-fronts into a testicular straight jacket for my crippled ancient sperm and extra wrinkly ball sacks. Something Jesus never got to experience.  She also brushes the notion of boxer shorts aside insisting I couldn’t punch my way out of a wet paper bag.  Perhaps she’s right, but the mind boggles at a paper bag of such dimensions. 

So I find myself in Batley market place on a dull wet Monday morning rummaging through underpants when the immediate urge to find the nearest public convenience becomes an alarming number one priority for the business of number twos.  I’ve always been a martyr to my bowels, this morning, this dull wet morning, my bowels were objecting to the sardines Mother cooked for breakfast.  Tinned you see.  Oily.  Well not exactly the sardines on their own, but combined with the broccoli that had been mercilessly overcooked for a full hour for our previous night’s tea, my bowels were in full complaint like a BT customer, and I use the term customer loosely, just like today’s movement, when the term victim seems more appropriate for both scenarios.  It’s not that Mother usually cooks broccoli for more than an hour, forty minutes on a rolling boil at most, but Auntie Edna had phoned and started an in-depth conversation about the usual topic of the corns on her left foot. Not too sure why I mentioned her left foot as she hasn’t had a right foot for thirty seven years, ever since the infamous tram incident at Blackpool, but that’s another story.  Anyway, the great corn debate directly led to the abuse of broccoli for which I’m suffering, with may I add, dire and odious consequences.  

And as I sit here listening to my bowels evacuate into a public toilet bowl I find myself, in-between deciding whether or not Mother would prefer fudge brownies or sponge fingers for our afternoon tea, reading the graffiti daubed on the walls, not that the graffiti itself is worth a mention even though I have to confess at being impressed by the measurement of Dave’s member.  No the thought that occurs to me is that shouldn’t graffiti on toilet walls be written with regular verbs.  Then again I seriously doubt that constipated mathematicians do in fact work it out with a pencil.  

Life, indeed, is so full of complicated contradictions. 

                        *                        *                        *

Ben Nitt has just been promoted to the position of head cheese for the Clueless Collective’s Magazine of Poetica now that Cath Attar has been handed the reigns to their forthcoming Spudgun Magazine.  With this in mind we thought we’d be extra nice to him as he’s our new boss.

Monday, 23 May 2011


Who Needs Super Mario When You Have Super Meg

First Date 

“Be right out, Chester,” I managed to shake through the DT’s of my voice while the vapors from hell’s kitchen were rising and rummaging around the tiny bathroom with painted kitten head’s on tiles. I was freaking out here in a state of complete ricket jumping jiggers. I had let it all rip due to excessive nervousness and now the evil toilet was backing up toward me. I knew I couldn’t just stand by and hope for a miracle. I held back my bile and stuck my left hand into the rising muck and thought if only I’d worn my butt plug this dumping the dumpster of floating ruddy carnage might not have happened, at least until we got to the restaurant. 

I prayed as though I’d prayed before and then I saw it! Goddamn raccoon tails to douche bags, a window, a beauteous window!!! I slowly reached over with my unsoiled hand and groped through the lace sashes to reach the goddamn latch. What kind of a holocaust of a first date was this? I worked my serpentine nails until I got the damn thing open. Another fucking knock!

“Are you okay in there?” 

“Oh yeah, Chester, just a little stomach thing, I’ll be right with you,” I managed to squeak out, wanting to bash his head against the white kitty tiles until they were a bloody butcher’s red. I thought of the massacre, the mutilation of this guy I wanted like the first and last fucking pony I never got, and now here I was loping piles of turd scum out the window wondering if I could squeeze my fat ass, with suctioned intestine, out this tiny white square, fresh air, to freedom!

                          *                            *                      *

Meg Tuite

Meg Tuite's writing has appeared in numerous journals. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press. Her novel "Domestic Apparition" (2011) will soon be available through San Francisco Bay Press. She has a monthly column “Exquisite Quartet” for Used Furniture Review.
Her blog:

© Meg Tuite

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

Our Very Own Blog From The Bog

TOM - So Dick, this is our bog.  What is it?

DICK - What is what?

TOM - Bog?

DICK - I’m not too sure, but I do know that it’s called a blog.  Bog is where you do your poos and where you have a wee wee and no one, I mean absolutely no one, is gonna want to watch you doing a poo.

TOM - Yeah but you read your PlayToon on the bog, and you go in there all secrety and eat yer custard pies.

DICK - I’m not even gonna mention what you do on the bog.

TOM - OK then blog.  What is it?

DICK - I’ve had a look around and it seems to me that a lot of silly people just write rubbish and then go up to girls in bars and say; “hey beautiful, I’ve got a blog.  How about a fuck?” in which case I say let’s get this thing up and running ‘cos I’m all for some of that I can tell yer.

TOM - Yeah, I’ve been doing some investigating, ‘cos officially we are trained investigators, and it looks to me like some kind of diary.

DICK - That’s hardly going to be interesting is it?  ‘Today Tom was mainly farting and made the pad smell of eggs, again’.

TOM - Or, or, ‘Today Dick was mainly measuring his winky to see if it’s grown overnight’.

DICK - Shut up Tom or I’ll get me frying pan out of my pocket and smack you one.

TOM - Well we could do a weekly blog.  We could write it on the bog.

DICK - Yeah.  Yeah.  The blog from the bog.

TOM - When should we start.

DICK - Not now Tom, I’m going up the pub.